


The Progress of Arthur Morgan

by TheWaitingFangirl



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Denial of Feelings, Divorce, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Issues, Feelings of Inadequacy, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Patient!Arthur Morgan, Slow Burn, Strangers to Friends, Therapist!Reader, god knows he needs it, someone please send arthur morgan to fucking therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-10-25 10:40:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20722865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWaitingFangirl/pseuds/TheWaitingFangirl
Summary: Being a therapist was never easy, but you always did your best to help your clients. Having gone through a particularly rough divorce yourself, you thought it to be only fair to help those going through the same and overcome what you had barely managed to - and within a short time, you made a name for yourself. You always prided yourself in being able to tell what your clients wanted...That is, until Arthur Morgan came to you with whatever tatters were left of his marriage, and you couldn't exactly pinpoint what he wanted to get out of it - and quite honestly, also piked your interest. Professional curiosity, you told yourself. Until you had started blurring the lines and going out of your way in order to help him. He was easy to be around with, you noticed, and even more so to please.It'd be alright, had your attachment been purely clinical, in a professional way and Arthur's willingness to connect with you out of the need to have someone to simply listen to him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have no idea about how satisfied I am about posting this. First things first, I’m a psychology student (think I’ve talked about this before) and I’m like, deeply in love with my future profession. Second, Arthur Morgan needs some therapy. Urgently. This idea came out of nowhere, based off of a case we read during one of our ethics class about a therapist falling in love with his client and my hand slipped with a 10+k long fic about the subject aosdnakjsdn
> 
> Also!!! This fanfic has a PLAYLIST. Can you fucking believe it????? Consider giving it a listen! My music taste is weird!  
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2b1BPhyzyjf7dG9JpZZ5jZ?si=gwTf5wVGT82db60VjW19Fg

You sipped at your coffee, flicking through the pages of your log journal with mild interest, eyes fleeting through the file, packed with whatever you had managed to gather to put together for the afternoon patient. A man, mid 30s. Going through divorce, according to the reference contact — his father. Showed signs of apathy, self-stem issues and discouragement towards the present and future. You scribbled “depression?” on the page, cocking your head to the side.

Another sip, this time frowning.

It was simple enough, you meditated; but no case was just what was written in the log. You tapped the mechanical pencil on the page, above the name of the man.

Arthur Morgan.

Divorce was a mighty thin ice subject for you to approach with men, having gone through one yourself — but you found release in helping others find their peace with it and overcome failed relationships, even if you were yet to find it yourself.

You pushed a strand of hair behind your ear, resting your chin on top of your hand. You hoped Mr. Morgan was easy enough to deal with.

* * *

“Mr. Morgan,” you called from the entrance of your listening room, finding the patient when he perked up at his name. You held the door open in an inviting way, turning your head to the side with a placid smile, “please, do come in.”

The waiting room wasn’t packed — the clinic in which you attended to always had a nice disposition of patients through the week, as not to make the ones in the waiting too anxious by being around too much people. The man stood up, rather slowly, giving you a tight nod of his head and a pressed smile as he passed through you and into the soundproof room.

He stood there, almost awkwardly, even after you closed the door. The man was tall, you took in, with dark blond hair and almost touching his shoulders and a beard that had seen better days. His posture suggested one of a cornered animal, waiting for something to pounce him as he sketched a runaway plan — but that wasn’t unusual to you. Most of the people who’d come to you were nervous, unsure even, but you had always managed to help them find their path.

“Please,” you said in a gentle voice, but Mr. Morgan still snapped his attention to you. You motioned towards the room, walls of soft tone of yellow, two beige armchairs and a loveseat of the same color, with dark brown pillows and a rug. You had always found the listening room to be a warm, welcoming environment — because that’s what the profession revolved around, making the patients feel welcomed and at ease —, but he still watched the place like it was a trap of a sorts. “Take a seat wherever you’d like.”

The man rubbed the palms of his hands against his jeans covered thighs, shuffling uncomfortably in place. “Anywhere?”

“As long as you’re comfortable,” you nodded, clasping your hands in front of your body. His teal colored eyes fleeted briefly through the room and he ultimately moved towards the loveseat, facing the armchair opposite to it. “Is this your first time? In a therapy session?”

He nodded stiffly, not really meeting your eyes as you sat on the armchair and smiled comprehensively.

“I see,” you took off your glasses, folding it and setting them on the cushioned arm, “but there’s no need to be nervous, Mr. Morgan. We’re here simply to talk, maybe figure some things out, this is a safe space for you to share whatever comes to your mind, you see? I’m here to listen and help however I can.”

The man nodded again, this time picking at the velvety surface of the loveseat. He seemed flustered, almost. “Never thought I’d end up needing a shrink, ‘s all.”

You smiled again, not unused to the term neither. “Everyone should do therapy, if you were to ask me,” he looked up at you, somewhat puzzled and you shrugged lightly. “I assure you it’s nice to know someone’s listening on the other end; someone that’s not going to judge you. It’s not about getting fixed, it’s about making sure everything’s in order here,” you pointed to your head, “to make sense of everything else.”

He seemed to consider your words, ultimately agreeing but not very enthusiastically. Passivity, you noted mentally.

“Tell me about yourself, Mr. Morgan…,” you started again, voice gentle and calm.

“Just—,” he interrupted, looking flustered, “Arthur ‘s fine.”

You cocked your head to the side, nodding understandingly with an amused quip. “Arthur, then. Like the King.”

Arthur scoffed, looking to the side. “Very different fellas, that’s for sure.”

“And why do you say that?,” you asked, clasping your hands together in a polite manner. Your tone wasn’t accusatory and, if anything, you had found professional curiosity in the man. Low self-stem, perhaps? Too early to say.

The man stayed silent for a moment, seeming to think on what to say. “Never been one for titles and such for myself, ‘s what I mean. Prefer to keep it simple.”

“I see,” you smiled again, trying your best to look welcoming. He surely was very different from what you were expecting. “Well, then. My name’s Y/N, but you can call me how you’d like, if you don’t appreciate using my first name in our sessions.”

Arthur nodded once more, twisting his lips as if somewhat displeased. Embarrassment, perhaps he was here against his will.

“Feels kinda silly,” he muttered to no one in particular, “payin’ up someone just to hear me talk.”

You laughed softly, hand coming up to rest on your chin, “it’s more common than you think, although psychology is still viewed as a somewhat taboo thing, even by modern standards. We like to think of ourselves as doctors, of a kind,” you joked lightly, trying to humor him and see if that would help him loosen up, “doctors of the mind, if you please.”

He smirked then, only partially more at ease, “whatever you say, doc. Just make sure to fix me up.”

You shook your head, now humored yourself. “See, Arthur,” you started, squeezing your eyes lightly to seem warm, “therapy is a two way hand. You’re not a mentally broken person to start with,” at that he seemed to recoil, but you were quick to add, “just in need of someone to listen to you. We’re here to help you learn more about yourself, so you can rely on your own inner strength to overcome personal matters, you understand me?”

He frowned then, but acquiesced with a quick nod.

“Let’s start by saying that whatever is said here won’t leave this room,” you recited the well-eased script, “I’m your confident and won’t share personal and intimate information on you with anyone if requested, unless given permission by you. Is that of accord with you?”

“Sure is,” Arthur mumbled, too focused on his hand resting on top of the armrest of the loveseat. He seemed to have drawn in once more.

“Your father told me some primary information on you,” you said calmly, trying to sound softer, “but I’d like to hear things from you, if you don’t mind.”

With a frown, the man tapped his thumb on the velvety surface of the armrest. He seemed displeased, almost. Self-consciousness?

“Let’s start small, then,” you prompted in face of his hesitation, “tell me about your work.”

“I work as a teacher,” he answered quietly, fleeting his eyes towards you, “art teacher, for middle schoolers.”

You nodded, honestly interested. “That’s really nice. You get along well with children, then?”

Arthur nodded, this time more enthusiastically, and a smile appeared on his full lips for the first time. “Yeah, the children sure are nice,” he commented idly, almost pleased, “they’re more open, feels like I’m the one learning in the classroom sometimes.”

“I’m sure it’s very fulfilling,” you urged him on, continuing in the same tone of voice, “so, tell me. Do you have any children of your own?”

He shifted uncomfortably, smile soon disappearing. “I… no, not really,” he scratched his chin nervously, “my… my wife never wanted none for herself,” Arthur confided lowly, still somewhat hesitant. “But I’ve always wanted to have children.”

You nodded again, feeling the sensitive subject building up. Maybe you should be more direct. “And how does that make you feel? Her not wanting to have children? Does that upset you?”

Arthur scoffed lightly, fixing his teal colored eyes on his fingers smoothing the sofa’s surface. “Can’t really blame her, doc,” he commented, in an off-handed tone, “she’s not wrong on it.”

Cocking your head to the side, you watched him. “Why do you say that?”

He seemed to be humored by your question, shrugging as if the answer was obvious. “I mean, wouldn’t want to have a babe of mine neither.”

You pressed your lips together, nodding slowly. You didn’t expect that sort of answer. “But you want a child,” you pointed out, “doesn’t that make it some kind of a paradox?”

Arthur watched you for a moment, considering your words before shaking his head. “You sure like making complicated questions, doc.”

At this, you smiled, bowing your head slightly. “Just trying to understand your situation, Arthur.”

“Sure,” he sighed, eyeing the cinnamon brown colored plush pillow. “It doesn’t make a difference now, though. She don’t want me no more.”

Passivity, once more.

You weighed the words, leaning back on the cushioned armchair, “is this the reason why you’re splitting apart?”

Arthur frowned, but he didn’t seem displeased — instead, he was almost… sad. “One of the few,” he said quietly, in a voice you could only tag as secretive, “but I never insisted on it much, didn’t want to force her into the idea. We thought about it, couple times some years ago, but the moment was never right and so…,” he trailed off, looking at you somewhat awkwardly, “it never came, I guess.”

That surprised you.

You had expected him to be much more imposing, from what little you had gathered from the reference contact; but it was as if he didn’t really want to have a say in the matters of his life. “I understand,” you commented, following the tracks, “is there something else, then? As the children subject isn’t the only reason, as you stated before.”

He sighed, closing his eyes briefly. “Mary doesn’t really fancy my job. Takes too much time, I’ll admit, but—“

The silence stretched, almost expectantly, but you didn’t dare breach it yet. Arthur shook his head then, and you took that as a sign to speak again.

“Are you happy with your job as a teacher, Arthur?,” you asked sincerely, regarding him with curiosity.

Arthur frowned at your question. “What? ‘course I am, why wouldn’t I be?,” he twisted his lips, “doesn’t mean she has to enjoy it too.”

“I see,” you acquiesced, nodding briefly. “How long have you been together, then?”

“Ah,” the man shrugged, “ever since Junior year in college, I guess. She majored in Business, to take over her family’s company. Been about 12 years or so, would turn 13 this July.”

He kept track, you noticed. That means he cared.

“That’s a long time,” you clasped your hands together, “why only now?”

Arthur watched you for a moment, seeming rather frustrated, before answering. “We grew tired of each other, I guess.”

You cocked your head to the side. This wasn’t unusual. “Would you care to elaborate, Arthur? Of course, if that’s okay by you.”

He nodded, moving to pick the pillow and set it on his lap. Defensive manner, you blinked slowly. That made him uncomfortable. “Love ran out, ‘suppose. We argue a lot now, ‘bout bills, the school, sometimes she says that I’ve changed, but I—“ Arthur trailed off, growing silent for a few seconds before continuing. “We’re just really mean to each other, ‘s all.”

You regarded him in a clinical way, resting your head on your hand. He seemed almost guilty. “Is it of your wish, then? To go separate ways?”

Arthur scoffed, still not looking at you. “Not really… but if that’s what she wants, I’m okay with it.”

Passivity, again.

“But I’m asking you,” you pressed on the matter, shifting on the armchair, and trying to make your voice seem warm and understanding, “how does that make you feel? You not wanting to go and Mary making the decision for the both of you?”

“What I mean is that I’m not gonna insist on it, doc,” he said slowly, almost in a mechanical way, “if she don’t wanna stay, I’m not gonna force her. She never had much freedom, with her family around, but now that her pa’s gone, she can do things. She has friends, colleagues and…,” Arthur shrugged, resting his arms on top of the pillow. “Mary has her own life now.”

“And how does that make you feel, Arthur?,” you pressed on, watching him intensely. He was so incredibly acceptant of the situation it surprised you. “We’re here to talk about you.”

He watched his hands for a moment, processing your question. “Like… I don’t know,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes to keep the tears welling up in there from spilling, “maybe that I’m not enough for her, I guess.”

“It’s okay to feel like that,” you offered lightly. It wasn’t uncommon for patients to cry neither, especially in such situations. “Every experience is valid in our lives, even the bad ones.”

Arthur grimaced at your words, giving you a somewhat impatient look. “With all due respect, doc,” he muttered, voice thick with emotion, “don’t give me this ‘it’s okay’ therapist talk ‘cause that ain’t gonna work on me. You just sound like my father.”

With a worried recoil of your shoulders, you plucked your glasses and put them back on, avoiding picking up the patient log and writing on it. “Then let’s talk about your family. You said I sounded like your father, is that a bad thing for you?”

“It’s…,” Arthur paused, hesitating for a moment, “not necessarily, but…,” his voice died out.

“Do you have a good relationship with him?,” you asked, as it was of your interest since the man had been the one reaching out to you, actively working to get Arthur to become your patient and had been insistent on paying for the sessions beforehand. He was old, perhaps in his late 50s, with short grayish-white hair and small, warm eyes. Hosea Matthews, as he had signed himself up as the emergency contact _and_ reference one to discuss progress occasionally.

“Sure do,” he agreed, looking solemn. “Hosea’s a good man… Dutch too.”

You hummed, expecting him to go on. “I’m told you began to live with them around the age of 11, is that correct?”

Arthur looked flustered, wary of the route you had taken on the conversation. “Yes,” he answered in a clipped manner. “They been great to me ever since.”

“Are you particularly closer to any of your parents?,” you asked, trying to diffuse the tension.

“I don’t see how this is helping,” Arthur answered, his voice quiet.

“It’s going to help me understand the situation in which you find himself,” you explained patiently, “seeing in which context you are, how your relationship with your family works, feelings and such.” He didn’t answer, instead focusing his attention on picking at the strands of the pillow where the seams were tearing apart. “Just trust me on it, Arthur. You don’t have to be afraid of telling me anything. This is a safe space for you, where you can say things without having to worry about the judgment of others.”

Arthur allowed the silence to grow and you glanced at your wristwatch to keep track of the time. He was tough to crack. “Hosea is easier to talk to, ‘suppose. He’s a better listener,” he said with finality.

So, family was a sensitive subject. You’d work up to it.

“What about your other father?,” you inquired in a soft voice, tilting your head to the side. Arthur looked away, visibly uncomfortable. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, Arthur.”

“We’re good,” he muttered ultimately. “Feels like he’s more fond of my brother, though.”

You nodded, pressing your lips together. Sense of inferiority, compares himself to others. The diagnosis was coming together, then. “Have you ever told him that?”

The man scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s a very stupid question, if I can say so.”

At that, you smiled in amusement. “Yes, you can,” you half laughed, “but I’m assuming that’s a no.”

“Good assumption,” he chuckled, rubbing a hand against his knee. You watched him for a moment, already putting together what you were to write down in the log when he spoke up. “So, I can tell you anythin’? Like, for real?”

You cocked your head to the side, smiling sweetly. “Yes, that’s the concept,” you agreed, blinking at him, “anything that comes to mind, from plans, to feelings, what you think about things, whatever it is. I’m here to listen to you and if you can’t understand something, I’ll help you through it.”

Arthur nodded a few times, gaze fixated on the coffee-brown fluffy rug. “And you can’t tell anyone about it?”

Shuffling in your seat, you considered your options. There were situations, yes, that you were allowed — and _should_ — break the confidentiality of the patient, but you feared that telling him would push him to hold back on information with you. Sighing, you decided to be honest.

“See, Arthur,” you started, “I’m not allowed to share any kind of information on you, not with your parents, with your wife, friends, family… no one, really,” he watched you with intelligent eyes and you knew he was listening. “There are exceptions, obviously. When you find yourself in immediate danger to yourself or others is a good example, and legally I’m obligated to inform your emergency contact of your condition and wait for them to come in contact with me before allowing you to walk away from the clinic.”

He watched you for a moment, weighing the words rather carefully “What would immediate danger be, in that case?,” Arthur asked seriously.

You hesitated before answering, rather wary. “Threats to your life or third parties, usually.”

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head, and he seemed to be humored. “Ain’t gonna go off like that, that’s for sure.” He shifted in his seat, fixing the plushy throw pillow on his lap. “That ever happened to you? With a patient?”

Lolling your head from one side to another, you answered, “it always happens when you decide to go into this branch of profession, it’s almost a certainty, I’d say.”

“That a yes?,” he asked.

“Yes,” you smiled rather sadly, “but they did not die. For obvious reasons, we could not continue treatment…”

“Why’s that?,” the man seemed surprised, almost dumbfounded.

“That option is owed to the patient, you see,” you explained patiently, “they did not want to be treated by a psychologist who broke their trust, even if that meant they’d live instead of passing away. Some people have plans and don’t appreciate it when we, as therapists, intervene.”

Arthur considered it, pressing his lips together and nodding quietly. You cocked your head to the side, regarding him closely.

“Do you keep a journal, Arthur?,” you inquired suddenly and that seemed to startle him. The man blushed slightly. “I find them very useful to say what we have difficulty of saying to others. Maybe you’d find that interesting?”

“I don’t…,” he sighed, shaking his head, rather embarrassed. “Always wanted to, but never got to it, I think.”

“Why’s that?,” you smiled sweetly, in an encouraging way. “Having a journal is a very useful and contrary to popular belief, it’s not just a ‘girl’ thing,” he smiled at that, “it helps with verbalization of feelings, reflective thought, organization… and, since you’re an art teacher, I do believe you might have art skills, no?”

Arthur looked flustered, a pinkish blush creeping to his cheeks as he averted his gaze from you. “Ain’t so sure, doc... just don’t think it’s gonna be helpful.”

“Try it, at least,” you encouraged, crossing your hands and resting them on your lap. He looked at you, rather unsure, “just a simple one. You can draw more than write, if that’s how you feel like. Just use it to express yourself,” you shrugged, trying to smile again, “I do think it’ll be good for you, Arthur, and I believe you have talent in drawing.”

The man tried to hold back an awkward little smile, in a sheepish manner. “Ain’t ever seen any of ‘em, don’t say nonsense—“

“I just have a hunch,” you spoke rather offhandedly and he quieted down. He seemed to be really insecure, more than you had expected. “Will you think about it, then?”

Arthur hunched his shoulders at it, playing with his fingers. “Sure, can try to,” he hesitated before continuing, “you gonna read it?”

“If you want me to,” you answered truthfully, “you can show me whatever you’d like from it and we can discuss the matters if you want to.”

He nodded, seeming more confident. You glanced at your watch again, to keep track of the time, but he didn’t seem to notice your action. “Ain’t gonna be much in there, doc,” he continued, shifting in his seat, “but I’ll give it a thought.”

* * *

You tapped the pen thoughtfully against the patient logbook.

The day had been long, with too many cases to keep track of individually and the logbook was truly a blessing on days like these; not to mention how useful it was to remind yourself of the last session's main points before walking into the listening room again.

Almost as if unthinkingly, your eyes drew back down on the logbook page.

Arthur’s name was written there, in your handwriting, with his information.

_-> Going through divorce, doesn’t want to fight to keep his wife, unfulfilled marriage -> no children;_

_-> Art teacher, went to art school, adopted at 11, possibly from problematic family -> ask on it later;_

_-> Sensitive on family topic, feels set aside by parent -> father does not offer recognition according to patient;_

_-> Low self-steem, difficulty when it comes to verbalizing feelings + disregard;_

_-> Journal recommendation, developing diagnosis -> recommended 6 months of therapy, once a week._

You sighed. Divorce cases were always the hardest for you, but you had never taken in a man for that matter. It was a change of pace, but not of heart — you always had taken in the ones who did not wish to follow through with the separation; some with children, others old, young, some coming from infidelity, many from “love running out”, but never once someone had given up so easily. Neither had seemed to be so indifferent about their own wishes, abilities and overall identity.

It was sad, you came to the conclusion. You were sad for him.

Which, you reminded yourself, wasn’t unusual; therapists were allowed to feel empathy towards their patients, but you were curious. Every session was like a missing piece to a puzzle, to put together the history of someone’s life and psyche — and right now, you felt like you had been given a whirlwind of missing pieces that when put together didn’t make much sense. There was more to it.

You took a sip of your tea, closing your eyes at the sweet taste of the drink. It was hard, especially when you could see the quiet suffering through words and actions, and he didn’t to be comfortable, nor used, with the availability of someone there to listen to him. In the quiet darkness of your office, you reclined back at the desk chair, eyes trained on the logbook.

It was then that you decided that you were to do everything in your power to help Mr. Morgan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure to leave a comment, make an author's day!!! It does mean a lot!!!!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m pretty satisfied with the response to the fic!!!! I really really REALLY enjoyed writing it and quite frankly, it’s my baby! Special thanks to @verai-marcel on tumblr for chatting briefly about it with me, you rock??? Also, remember this fic has a playlist! You can see it below!
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2b1BPhyzyjf7dG9JpZZ5jZ?si=O3Eug5_qS5qGJSQEl4mgsA

After a number of sessions in, roughly three months and half of  
having gotten to know him, Arthur entered the room slowly, somewhat avoidant,  
but he did offer a half-smile when you greeted him. The man seemed disheveled,  
a creased t-shirt with a perhaps too beaten shirt on top, his hair tousled to  
the side like he had just woken up and bags under his eyes. You shifted  
somewhat uncomfortably after he sat down, quiet as a hermit.

“You seem quiet today,” you said in a soft voice, taking your place across from him, “would you like to talk about that?”

He looked to the side, hesitant once more, deciding on keeping silent.

You watched him with a clinical eye. Arthur seemed… tired; through and through, clamped up and unwilling to breach — but he wasn’t moody, per se, as if he could snap at any given second, leaning more towards a difficult sort of upsetting, like he longed for some kind of emotional break.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head almost imperceptibly, seeming as if he wanted to talk, before growing silent once more.

With a twist of your lips, you cocked your head to the side in an understanding manner. “We can keep quiet too, if that’s what you want. Sometimes, peace and quiet is nice too, isn’t it?”

At that, he smiled half-heartedly. “Would you look at that,” the man croaked, almost to himself, “not even half of the appointment in ‘n you can read my mind.”

You giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “forgive me for not bringing the tarot cards and the crystal ball for the session, I’m told some patients find that rather upsetting.”

Arthur laughed then, moving his hand to hide the free smile that had appeared on his face after your humorous quip; and you noticed he had a hearty laugh, easy to the face by the lines around his eyes and how his shoulders shook slightly. It almost made you sad to see him hide it.

“Yeah, don’t think that’d be very nice,” he said in a good-hearted voice, “walkin’ in here to see ya in a black robe, with candles ‘n shit.”

Shaking your head, you felt more at ease to see him smiling now. It gave you some kind of satisfaction, as a therapist. “How are you, Arthur?”

He kept smiling, although sadly now. “That’s a tough question now,” he picked up the same pillow he had the last time, setting it on his lap and draping his arms over it in a protective manner. “Would be nice to avoid it, but I feel like yer not havin’ it.”

“Does that make you uncomfortable?,” you asked honestly.

“Not particularly.”

At this, you raised your eyebrows at him. Arthur huffed, then.

“Mary has asked me to leave the house,” he confessed, nodding sagely as if reflecting long and deeply on the matter. His eyes cast downwards, towards his clasped hands, “she wants to sign the papers, this week.”

This came as an icy-cold water bucket and you couldn’t help but feel bad for him.

Some patients would confuse the therapy as some sort of silver lining to save their own sinking marriage, something that you’d have difficulty explaining at times, as you had gone through the same thing not too far back. Your heart clenched painfully.

Before you could open your mouth, he continued. “Not surprised, not really, I knew it’d come to this, but…,” he trailed off, shrugging, “she says I’m too closed off.”

You nodded at him, genuinely concerned. “Are you, though?”

He shook his head, clearly wanting to clamp up once more. “Am I?”

“I’m asking you, Arthur,” you pressed on, feeling somewhat cornered yourself. It resembled a younger version of yourself, scared and helpess. “You don’t have to rely on the opinion of others about yourself.”

He stayed silent instead, settling for watching you with a distant look in his eyes. The man seemed to be at loss, searching for something to say after your upfront commentary. “I can’t really tell,” Arthur said with finality, resting his eyes on a sunflower painting to your right, “don’t wanna know neither.”

“I see,” you said gently, blinking slowly at him with something akin to sympathy. “Where are you staying, Arthur?”

His teal colored eyes widened slightly as if surprised by the question, clearly not expecting you to ask about something so trivial. “My brother’s,” he shrugged, “John’s fixed me the guest bedroom, said I can sleep there.” The silence stretched for a while, his hands fidgeting with the strands of the pillow and you feared that he’d pull the threads apart before the end of the session. “My dads don’t know ‘bout that yet.”

Nodding, you tried to give him your best understanding look. “How’s it at your brother’s home?”

“It’s nice, ‘suppose,” he answered quietly, thankful that you didn’t focus on the last thing he said, “Abigail is a good woman, his wife. Jack’s a good kid too, he pesters me a lot to teach him ‘bout art n’ stuff,” Arthur smiled at that, obviously fond of the boy, “he’s five now.”

“I’m glad you could find comfort at such a time,” you smiled placidly, keeping the professional composure even though you felt terribly sorry for him. “Your brother seems to care a great deal about you.”

Arthur sneered, amused by your speech. “The way you put it sure is weird, but I can’t really say it’s a lie,” he stated lowly, giving you a quizzical look, “if you were to ask me, I’d say John’s too lucky to have Abigail in his life, but that ain’t none of my business.”

“Why do you say that?”

He closed one eye, grimacing slightly, as if the subject was a tad bit too touchy for him before he remembered about being able to talk freely to you. “They been on and off a couple times,” Arthur commented off-handedly, “Abigail is stubborn alright, but John is even worse than an old mule if you were to ask me.”

That made you chuckle half-heartedly, keeping close track of his expression. Arthur seemed torn apart, like he wanted to say something before finally deciding to speak up.

“I guess ‘s just hard to take in, you feel me?,” he frowned at you, somewhat antsy. “John’s fucked up a lot of times, but…”

“But?,” you prompted him on, curious to see where this would lead. Maybe you knew where.

Arthur closed his eyes, clearly upset. “Abigail’s been nothing less than comprehensive with that old ass,” he offered, as if it were a secret, “I guess I’m just touchy Mary ain’t had to worry about less than half of John’s bullshit from my part n’ even then, I’m the one getting divorced.”

He stayed silent for a bit, eyes trained on the tissue paper on the coffee table. You felt sorry for the man, but also somewhat glad at how he seemed to quickly open up to you, jumping from one subject to another with much more ease than the first session, even if you had to coax him a little at the start.

“Getting divorced isn’t the end,” you said softly, smiling when he looked at you with a doubtful face. “You can always meet new people, Arthur.”

He snickered, reluctant at accepting your advice. “Like you know what that’s like, doc.”

“I’m a divorcee, Arthur,” you said in a levelled voice, watching as Arthur’s eyes flickered to your left hand and then back to your face. “Things don’t always work out and that’s not the end of the world, you can still keep going. Life keeps going.”

Arthur shifted his gaze to his hands pressing his lips together for a moment. He stayed quiet as you allowed the silence to stretch for longer. “I’m sorry,” he started, voice slightly flustered, “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“It’s okay,” you said mildly, following the rimming of your glasses with your fingers, “I’m sure you wouldn’t do that on purpose,” a quick smile and you could tell he still felt guilty over having said such a thing. “I promise you I’m not upset over it, I’ve heard far worse,” you chuckled, pushing your hair back with steady hand, “you don’t have to worry.”

He sighed, somewhat dissatisfied, “major fuck up right there.”

“I’d say minor, but whatever floats your boat.”

Arthur smiled slowly at you, surprised at your demeanor. “You’re a weird type, doc.”

Laughing softly, you rubbed your hands together, as if appraising his words. “In a way, we all are weird. Don’t you think so?”

He shrugged lightly, shaking his head in amusement. “Guess you’re right.”

Arthur was easy enough to get to know and even easier to entertain, you’d come to find out. Every minute with him felt like more and more unraveled from the complicated threading that made him whoever he was. You cocked your head to the side, smiling softly.

“Have we given the journal some thought, Arthur?”

With a sigh, he shook his head. “Didn’t have much time to think about it, if I’m bein’ honest,” he confessed, with a dissatisfied press of his lips. “Not sure if I will, neither. Feels like with everything that’s happenin’ it might be a lil’ too dark for my likin’.”

“Voicing your feelings is important, Arthur,” you reminded him, “even if only by doodling. You don’t have to write.”

He grimaced, looking away — this was always a sign that he felt uncomfortable about you being right, but would rather not agree upfront. “I’m still thinking ‘bout it.”

You offered him a gentle smile, crossing your legs and leaning to the side in the armchair. “When do you plan on letting your parents know about you and Mary?”

Arthur blinked a few times, as if trying to push away the tears from welling in his eyes. “After… everything is signed off and dealt with, I suppose.”

“How would you feel about telling just Hosea, then?,” you asked, aware that Arthur found it easier to speak to the silver-haired man rather than Dutch — you had come to learn his name through Hosea himself, after a fleeting call to discuss Arthur’s progress.

Arthur stopped for a second, weighing your words. “I could tell him,” he said painfully slow, “but I’d rather not worry him. ‘s not fair on Hosea…”

“He raised you, Arthur,” you reminded him gently, “how come he wouldn’t want to know what’s happening with you?” He didn’t answer at that, instead clasping his hands together. “You’re here because Hosea asked you to. He cares deeply—“

“I know,” he cut in with a crack in his voice, allowing the tears to well up in his eyes and streak down as he blinked rapidly, “I know, it just— I just—,” he trailed off with a shuddering breath, wiping roughly at his face as he cried quietly. It was the first time you had seen Arthur cry in your sessions and his shoulders shook with the might of it, months’ worth of pent up emotions coming out all at once.

You couldn’t help but feel bad for the man. You had gotten to know him, in the sessions — and he was caring, you had deemed, and warm, easy to get along with and even more so to please; he literally asked for so little in return it was difficult to believe his marriage had been falling apart. With every client, you tried not to get too one sided, but it was inevitable as you never got to hear the other side of the couple — and you were quite frankly thankful you didn’t have to. Things always tended to get messy in marital counselling and you were glad for never striving towards that branch.

Arthur was far too closed up, you had to remind yourself sometimes, he only opened up to you because it was your job to listen to him. He didn’t have enough self-confidence to reach out for the things he wanted, to initiate situations he thought he deserved or call out someone who has wronged him. He rode his life as a side character in his own book. He was far from perfect.

In a sympathetic streak of sympathy, you reached out for the small tissue box and got on your feet to stand beside him as he tried to keep his emotions in check. With a murmur of comfort, you rested a hand on his shoulder, offering the tissues to him — which he took gratefully as you rubbed his back in a gentle motion.

“You deserve nice things too, Arthur,” you said in a quiet voice, ignoring the better judgment at the back of your mind that screamed at you to back off, “you deserve kindness, remember that; you just need to realize it.”

He took the tissues rather hesitantly, sniffling loudly in the quietness of the room as you muttered soothingly at him. The impropriety of the moment fueled by your own personal feelings went by unnoticed or preferably ignored by you both, and you resumed the gentle touching of your hand on his shoulder. You wanted to deny it, but you felt Arthur ease down a little bit as you stood there, your mind racing until he fixed you with a thankful look.

“Thanks,” he croaked with a teary face, smile wavering slightly before he turned away to wipe his face as he commented in a humorous quip, “ah, that’s quite embarrassing, ain’t it?”

You tried to smile at him, managing only a sad quirk of your lips. With a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder, you let go of the tissue box opting for leaving it on the arm of the loveseat. Your mind buzzed slightly — you weren’t quite sure if you saw too much of yourself in Arthur, but…

“It’s okay to show feelings, even to your therapist,” you commented off-handedly, trying to remind yourself from your own position. 

You ignored the nagging sensation and giddiness of having gotten away with something wrong.

Arthur snickered, huffing out a breath of laughter through his tear stricken face, “yeah, guess that ain’t gonna kill me.”

“How are you feeling right now?,” you asked tentatively, smiling encouragingly when he risked a glance at you.

“Well, you know,” he started with all the propriety of a gentleman, “like shit, if I’m being honest.” The man chuckled slightly, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the palm of his hand as if in thought. “Doc?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Yes, Arthur?”

He seemed to be hesitant to ask, “did you really mean that?,” he asked tentatively, focusing on you finally, with a look that could be translated by a mix of confusion and doubtfulness, “… ‘bout the nice stuff n’ all that shit, that is.”

Letting out a sigh, you rested your face upon your hand. “We’ve talked about this, haven’t we?,” the man nodded in response, fleeting his gaze away, “you know the answer.”

Arthur dallied himself, instead busying his mind with the intent focus on the tissue paper box. “Sometimes… it feels like it’s the wrong answer, ‘s all.”

With a press of your lips, you felt like you had made a breakthrough. This was going into the patient log, definitely. “I see,” you offered in an understanding voice, “have you ever felt like that or is this just redirected towards Mary?”

He seemed to look up at you in surprise, as if caught off guard by the question and sudden reality of it all — and then he frowned, not knowing the answer. 

“It’s okay if you don’t know, Arthur,” you said softly, “I’m just here to help you realize things. You don’t have to tell me everything, you know that.”

Arthur nodded slowly, easing down again. “No, ‘s alright,” he added, pinching the bridge of his nose with a slight smirk, “jus’ wanted yer to say it to me, ‘s all.”

Ah, so he was in search for reassurance. Your mouth dried up slightly as you offered him a placid smile.

“You don’t need me to tell you that sort of stuff, Arthur,” you said quietly, highly aware of how clinical your voice sounded, holding him at an arm’s length. You could tell he seemed dissatisfied by your approach, but you kept going. “Therapy is about realizing your own self-worth without the need of third parties on that.”

He grimaced slightly, as if expecting that sort of reaction even though it displeased him. “I know,” he paced around the question like a particularly stubborn cat who insisted on climbing the countertop. “Just… forget it.”

Your heart clenched painfully and you spoke up against your better judgement. “I’ll say it to you again, nevertheless,” you offered in a mellow tone, a gentle smile on your face as he looked up at you. “You deserve the good things that come to your life, Arthur,” you noticed he listened to you avidly, almost leaning forward as if to hang onto your every word, “and once you realize you do deserve them, you should go after it. Learn to reach out for what you want, it’s not forbidden to be selfish every once in a while.”

Arthur closed his eyes, as if meditating on your words, your voice being a beacon of reason for now. “And what if I don’t…,” he muttered tentatively, stopping to clear his throat, “what if I don’t know what I want?”

“We all do,” you spoke quietly, cocking your head to the side in a pensive manner, “most of the time we’re just too afraid to admit that to ourselves.”

“I want to divorce Mary,” he stated in a matter of fact voice, as if compelled by the serenity in yours. Then he flinched, tearing up once again. 

You nodded your understanding, allowing him a moment to catch his breath.

“I’m not happy,” he continued, frowning at the way his voice wavered again, “maybe it has worked before,” Arthur commented, casting his eyes to the fluffy rug, “but it hasn’t, at least for some time now.”

The silence stretched and you allowed yourself to watch Arthur for the time being. It felt like he still wanted to say something more. He shifted in his seat, dabbing at his eyes to collect the unshed tears there, otherwise still as a rock.

“It feels to me,” you started tentatively, to see if he’d speak up, “that you were too afraid to admit that to yourself in fear of hurting her feelings.”

Arthur huffed out a breath, clearly amused. “Thought you’d said you had left the crystal ball at home.”

You smiled at his little remark. “Sometimes I do a reading before a session,” you shrugged with nonchalance, “do a spread of tarot, prepare a potion or two.”

“With newt eye and thyme?”

“You know my deal,” you turned your hands up in defeat and Arthur chuckled warmly. “How does it feel to voice that one out, Arthur?”

“Different,” he limited himself to say, smile still playing on his lips. “Never thought much of it that way.”

“Different in a good or bad way?,” you inquired sincerely and Arthur’s eyes shifted towards you.

“Good,” he admitted promptly, with a tone of vulnerability in his voice you couldn’t remember having heard, “definitely good.”

* * *

You rinsed the soap from your face slowly, the warm water a comforting presence after a long day. 

Finally, you had allowed yourself to reflect on what had happened today — your hand on your _patient’s _back. Not that it was forbidden to touch, but most of the time it could lead to a misunderstanding of roles and feelings in therapy — a place where patients felt safe coupled with a good listener who was, perhaps, too gentle to them, usually ended up badly. You weren’t a rookie in this, you knew the Code by heart. Maybe it’d be for the best to pass him along to another therapist?

Staring at your own reflection as the mirror fogged with the running water, you frowned slightly. There had been some serious advances, nevertheless. Arthur was opening up, he trusted you, and you felt like referring him to a colleague would only further his feelings of inadequacy.

Rubbing the back of your neck, you tried to plan your next decision. Arthur’s next session were to happen in about 10 days from now, you reasoned; and even then, you found yourself worrying about him. When would he be signing the papers to settle the divorce with his ex-wife? You closed off the tap water.

You hoped he’d get a good deal.

Frowning, you sighed loudly. This wasn’t none of your fucking business. As if to get your mind off of it, you tied your hair up and moved towards the kitchen for a glass of wine. You needed to relax.

Arthur was your patient — nothing more.

* * *

“Hey,” you heard Arthur’s voice call from behind in a hesitant voice above the chit-chat and white noise.

You turned around, somewhat taken aback at the prospect of meeting a patient out of the listening room and, surely enough, Arthur Morgan stood there with a half-smile. His beard was maybe an inch too long, although the eyebags under his eyes seemed to be disappearing and his clothes were way less unruly than a few days ago.

He also smelled nice.

“Oh,” you gasped, recovering with a slightly sheepish smile, positively out of your element, “hey, Arthur. How are we doing?”

Arthur smiled back, holding the supermarket basket a little higher against his hip. “Didn’t expect to find yer ‘round here.”

“Well,” you tried to say casually, ignoring the burning questions at the back of your mind about his life, not really aware where to draw the line between the relation of patient-client and acquaintances — because you were _not_ friends. “Believe it or not, we as therapists have to eat like everyone else.”

He snickered, amused by your teasing answer. “That came out as a surprise, thought you lot lived off of our eternal despair as human beings.”

“Oh, no,” you with a half-mocking surprised lilt in your voice and a smirk, “you have found out about my secret!”

“Nah,” Arthur shifted his weight from one foot to another, shaking his head slightly, “your secrets are safe with me, ma’am.”

You felt the urge to throw your shopping cart at him and run away, but resisted bravely. He regarded you in a warm manner, like one would to a close friend, before speaking up again.

“Signed the papers yesterday,” he commented off handedly, showing you his left hand, where a silver band of a ring rested up until your last session; now the only evidence of it being the slightly pale skin. “Could’ve gone worse.”

With a nod, you resisted the urge to ask how he felt about it — you weren’t in a listening room. You weren’t even supposed to be talking to him about life matters, to be honest.

“Not gonna ask me anythin’?,” Arthur teased and you felt the nervous lilt in his voice, the slight strain to it.

“I…,” you started, shaking your head slightly as you cocked your head to the side, “didn’t mean to intrude, is all.”

Arthur seemed confused at that. “I tell yer everythin’ ‘bout my life,” he shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, but you could see the tension is his body language, “why’d I shy away from it now?”

“It’s not recommended for patients and therapists to maintain a relation outside of the listening room,” you said tentatively, trying not to sound too closed off, “I’m just trying to preserve your… privacy.”

He twisted his lips slightly, trying not to seem too upset at your demeanor. “I see,” he said quietly, shifting his gaze from you to his own basket, nearly empty. He tried not to seem too hurt about it. “Didn’t mean to put yer in a tough position, doc.”

“It’s—,” you started, reaching out to touch his arm in reflex, before recoiling, “it’s okay Arthur.”

The man refused to look you fully in the eye, uncomfortable. “Yeah,” he agreed quickly, looking around, “’s alright. Should be getting goin’ now, doc. See yer next week, yeah?”

With a tightening sensation in your throat, you watched as Arthur shuffled away from you and the cereal aisle. Closing your eyes, you pressed your cool hand to your forehead in a feeling not too far from despair.

* * *

Blinking slowly, you stared at the journal. It was leatherbound, with a thin leather strand to tie it up and keep the pages from being pried open when put into a bag. As if by reflex, you reached out and touched the coarse pages, thick enough to hold watercolor paintings without the color seeping to the next pages.

So much for a trip to the paper store to buy new markers.

You gnawed on your lower lip, taking the journal in your hands and running a hand over the smooth polished leather cover. Your mind immediately wandered to Arthur, obviously — the journal was simply _beautiful_, in a rustic sort of way, with a lovely simplicity and level of thoughtfulness that pleased you. On the inside, there were small pouches, sewed into it, for pencils and even a bigger one for what you guessed was to be placed a small case of watercolors.

“It came in just last week,” the cashier boy said lightly, with a well-practiced smile, “do you want me to add in to your list? It’s really good for scrapbooking or journaling.”

With a sudden wave of bravery, you smiled at him, passing the journal over. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

* * *

Arthur sat across from you in the listening room, with the airs of someone who’d rather avoid talking for the time being. He seemed cleaner, his beard had been trimmed and his face had adopted a healthy shade of pink that was common to people with a good disposition. He also dressed a little more neatly, with a light blue button up shirt and jeans. 

You clasped your hands together, above your knee as if planning what you were about to say.

“I know you’re upset with me,” you started, annoyed at how soft your voice had sounded, “and I apologize for it.”

The man sighed and you caught the slight tremor at the corner of his lips. He seemed displeased, upset at nothing in particular, and a long pause issued before he spoke up again. “Ain’t nothing to it, doc.”

Cocking your head to the side, you gave him silence until he put his thoughts back in order. Arthur seemed to appreciate that, finally looking up at you, somewhat hesitantly. 

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” you repeated, doing your best to convey the feeling into words, “therapists aren’t supposed to maintain a relation of friendship with their patients outside of the listening room. That’s why I didn’t prod you with questions.”

He looked away, examining the sunflower painting beside your armchair. “I was just trying to be friendly.”

“I know,” you sighed, crossing your legs, “but it’s considered unethical.”

“From my side or your side?,” Arthur asked suddenly, turning his teal colored gaze to you.

“Mine,” you confessed with a sad smile, “we can’t be friends while I’m treating you. And even then, when I’m no longer seeing you, it’d be considered morally ambiguous. You’re not in the wrong here, don’t worry.”

The silence stretched for longer with Arthur picking at his nails to avoid talking about it. “’s alright,” he said finally. “Just needed to tell someone about it at the time, saw you there and thought that… well.”

You couldn’t help but feel guilty as you got up on your feet and moved to the tiny desk at the corner of the room. “I know this, Arthur,” you said in a gentle voice, “and I know you’d never do this on your own,” you pulled the leatherbound journal from the drawer, “that’s why I did you the favor.”

Arthur’s eyes widened a bit at the sight of it, shifting to look at you with something not too far from bafflement. “That for me?,” his voice rose an octave with his eyebrows, not really reaching to take it from your hands when you offered. “That… I’m sorry, yer didn’t have to—“

“It’s okay,” you waved your hand in dismissal, setting the journal on the arm of the loveseat, “consider this a peace offer, will you?”

He smirked, shaking his head slightly, looking at you as if to ask for permission to touch the gift, “you sure?,” he squeezed his eyes a little, lightening up a little, “that sounds highly unethical, doc.” Stopping on your tracks, you turned to watch him like a deer caught in the headlights until he broke into a warm chuckle, smooth and hearty. “Ah, just teasin’ yer, no need to look at me like that.”

Cocking your head to the side, you gingerly sat back down on the armchair. “It’s a good way to put your thoughts in order,” you gestured to the journal that Arthur now inspected, slightly surprised at the thickness of its pages, “at least until next session and keeping in mind that you won’t be in therapy forever, it’s a great alternative.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably at the mention of it. “I suppose it is,” he closed the book, tying it up with the leather strand, “you still shouldn’t have bothered, but…,” he smiled now, setting it beside him with a warm smile your way, “I’m glad you did, doc.”

You smiled back, trying to keep the tenderness out of your gaze as you did so. “Me too, if I’m being honest,” you crossed your legs again, pushing your hair back. “Do you want to tell me how it went now? Signing the papers?”

He shrugged, still somewhat giddy. “Could’ve been worse, I guess. She left me the car n’ the apartment, but I think I’ll sell it, move to a house,” he shrugged. “Think she can afford to do that, what with all the money her daddy has.” Arthur rubbed his chin, trailing off, “never liked me much, her father. But at least it’s settled now.”

“How are you feeling about that, then? About going separate ways?”

“I still miss her,” he said quietly, not avoiding your gaze like he would before, when you inquired about his feelings, “now and then. But sometimes… it feels like I miss what we had, before.” The man shifted, hand slipping to his side to make sure he wouldn’t sit over the journal, “Guess I just didn’t wanna be alone.”

“There’s nothing wrong about being alone,” you said gently, blinking slowly as your chin came to rest on your hand, “some people prefer it that way, even.”

Arthur watched you as if he knew what you were talking about before deciding to indulge into his curiosity. “Are you of the kind, doc?”

“My company is delightful,” you limited yourself to say with a huff of laughter, to which Arthur replied with a smirk.

“Can’t argue with that,” he said in a tone of voice that made something flutter in your chest and left your head fuzzy. Did Arthur just flirt with you?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY I FORGOT TO POST
> 
> I was so busy at twitter gushing out about TLOU that I entirely forgot to post the fic yesterday! Then today I had to finish my, ah, idk 5th or 6th playthrough of TLOU. Either way.
> 
> Here it is, the conclusion to a thrilling saga! Hope y'all enjoy it!

Arthur had started greeting you with a kiss on the cheek about two or three sessions ago, and you were taken aback by the sudden change in behavior — usually he’d stick to the trivial nod of head, maybe a shake of hands, but this was a bit over the top. His l

You had blinked at him, flustered at the sudden easiness in which he seemed to touch you. With a sudden wave of uneasiness, you took in the small details, his trimmed hair and carefully shaven face, clothing on the nicer side of his wardrobe and a terribly good smelling sandalwood cologne.

Over the past weeks, he had made considerable improvements on his self-image and body language, seemingly more at ease with himself at each session, his behavior growing more flirtatious and teasing with time. It made you happy, to see Arthur progressing like that, but that last bit worried you. It wasn’t unusual for patients to feel attracted to their therapists, but it was rare for them to actively pursued it.

It took half a heartbeat for you to realize that you were most likely in deep shit.

“How are we doing this week, Arthur?,” you had asked him with a tight smile, ignoring the flutter of your stomach at the way he smiled at you, as if aware of the effect he had over you.

“All good, I s’ppose,” he shrugged lightly, apparently not too keen on highlighting any moment of his week, “same old, same old.”

“Same old would be a lie,” you laughed at his offhanded comment, moving to take a seat at your armchair, all too aware of the way Arthur was watching you. “We’ve come a long way since your first session and you seem far better, from my point of view.”

Arthur scoffed, averting his gaze with a flustered look. He soon chuckled, smile widening at your words. “Geez, doc— you can’t go ‘round blurtin’ out stuff like that.”

Was he blushing?

Crap.

“I’m just saying the obvious,” you tried to contour the situation, feeling the twist of emotion in your stomach. “I mean, you’re clearly taking better care of yourself, dressing better—“

At this, he smirked, fixing you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Arthur shrugged again, as nonchalant as he could be. “S’ppose I have, don’t have to mean anythin’.”

“Arthur Morgan,” you said in a secretive voice, curiosity dripping from your words, “don’t you dare shit me.”

He laughed warmly, the light of it making the corner of his eyes crinkle, no longer hiding behind his hand. Arthur was charming. You couldn’t believe you hadn’t noticed it before. “Let’s say there’s someone,” he started, seeming to be examining you for a reaction, “would you look down on me ‘cause of it?”

“Why would I do such a thing?,” you inquired, wary of the nature of the conversation.

The man huffed out a breath, leaning forwards in his seat in an intimate way as if to tell you a particularly nasty piece of gossip. “Well, all things considered, I just got out of a sinkin’ marriage, doc,” his eyebrows shot up, as if stating the obvious. “Sure sounds weird, me suddenly goin’ ‘round with someone else after barely a couple months, ain’t that so?”

You mouth suddenly felt dry, but you nodded nevertheless. “Each has their own time to heal, I suppose… but if you need to hear it, I wouldn’t look down or think less of you because of that.”

He seemed satisfied, a sheepish little smile blossoming on his full lips. The man seemed almost boyish with the way his eyes fixated on you, the warmth in it threatening to smother you. “Ain’t sure if she likes me yet,” Arthur said quizzically, smile broadening at your nodding answer, “but I sure am tryin’ to catch her eye.”

“It’s good to see that you’re allowing yourself room to grow,” you spoke gently, fighting the urge to prod on the subject, “it makes me proud knowing you’re reaching out for the things you want, Arthur.”

The man cocked his head to the side, an enigmatic little smile playing on his lips as he watched and you could _swear_ his eyes dallied a second too long on your left hand. “Yer told me you’ve divorced too” he started casually, a teasing lilt in his voice as he leaned back, “never told me how that went down for you.”

“Ah,” you gasped out as your eyes widened in surprise, caught off guard, “I don’t think— I mean,” you smiled nervously, fixing your hair, “it’s— it was okay for me.”

Arthur laughed softly, amused at how he had been able to knock you off your feet. “Don’t tell me I’ve ruffled your feathers, doc,” he teased, “why did you divorce?”

_Because my husband was a lying piece of garbage who had been fucking the desk attendant, of all people, behind my back as I worked my ass off_ sounded a bit too extreme, you decided. With a placid smile, you answered:

“I suppose we couldn’t see eye to eye anymore,” your hands tightened on your lap and you trained your gaze on some point above Arthur’s shoulder, “eventually, other people came around and we grew distant.”

He watched you, as if absorbing that piece of information and deciding if he should ask more on it. “Did he cheat on you?,” Arthur asked, all the amusement and jeering gone from his voice, replaced by genuine worry. You had a hard time trying to remember if you’ve seen him this serious.

You turned your head to the side, running away from the question. “I believe we should be talking about you, Arthur—“

“I’m tired of talking ‘bout myself,” Arthur interrupted in a soft voice, “we been seein’ each other once a week, for months now. Figured I should get to know yer a little more, ‘s all.”

With a steadying breath, you rubbed your lips together, tasting the sweetness of your lipgloss. What was he trying to do, cornering you like that? “I don’t think—“

“Don’t give me the ethics talk,” Arthur complained, sighing wearily, “think we’re well past that. ‘sides, I just asked yer a question,” his eyebrows jutted up, a soft smile playing on his full lips. “What’s wrong with that?”

_You flirting with me is everything that’s wrong with it_¸ you thought to yourself, trying not to seem too closed off, _and the worst part is that I want to flirt back._

“I see your point,” you spoke up, in your best nonchalant voice. “I suppose that’s fair.

“Well?,” Arthur probed further, gently. “Don’t have to tell me if I’m pushin’ too hard, doc. I’m just curious ‘bout you, ‘s all.”

“He cheated on me,” came your quiet confession, gaze resting on his eyes, so blue now you swore you could drown in them. You wanted to cry. “With one of our front desk attendants, about 2 years ago.”

Arthur nodded comprehensively, wary not to abuse his already stretched thin luck. You swallowed thickly, trying hard not to seem too sensitive over it. “We divorced and split the money, I got the house and he took the car, nothing new there. I’m okay with it.”

_What an awful liar. _

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “didn’t mean to upset yer, doc.”

“It’s okay,” you turned your attention to him now, forcing a smile, “it’s behind me.”

Arthur blinked, letting the silence settle in until you squirmed. And then, suddenly, he reached forwards, slowly, offering you his upturned palm. “Thanks for tellin’ me, doc.”

You hesitated, the few centimeters between you both diminishing by half. Your own hand moved, brushing his fingers before gently allowing him to hold it. Arthur’s hand squeezed yours and you noticed how warm his touch was, almost comforting, like a long waited embrace. You gasped out quietly, allowing the tears to pool in your eyes before wiping at them.

“It’s okay,” you repeated, listening the thunderous beating of your heart, hoping it wouldn’t give you away. “It’s okay, Arthur.”

He squinted at you, smiling so softly it made your heart clench — and you had to restrain yourself not to pull away in distress. “It’ll be.”

* * *

You pushed the entrance door open, the well known jingle of the bell ringing over your head.

The café you usually went to wasn’t a busy one — a small little thing, a family business with an incredibly sweet Italian cappuccino, just the way you liked it, with an adorably white-and caramel themed decoration —, and today wasn’t any different. With a pleasant smile, took a deep breath in, the smell of coffee and delicacies filling the air as you scanned a good spot to sit down at and maybe update your logbook.

You refused to actively address the issue at hand, opting for avoidance rather direct confrontation.

Arthur had been a recurring subject on your mind for the past few weeks, and what with after the little display a couple days ago, the presence of his character only intensified itself — much to your despair. His hands had felt so incredibly warm against the cool tips of your fingers, gentle and steady, much like his very presence and overall disposition whenever he walked into the listening room lately.

You were satisfied for him, really, proud of the path he had taken towards self-improvement and acceptance — Arthur was far better than when he came to you all those months ago, the curling satisfaction in your chest doing all the more to have you feel like an important part of it. Arthur needed reassurance, a little bit of recognition to realize his own self-worth, resourcing to it every once in a while, which you were all too happy to provide. The look in his eyes whenever you said something kind to him made your heart beat faster — the warmth there, the satisfaction on top of the inherent need to have someone to simply _listen_.

Scouting a place to sit was easy enough, your gaze sweeping through the few occupied tables to find a quiet and secluded spot for yourself, where you could possibly dissect your feelings revolving Arthur—

Until you found him sitting at the corner of the shop.

Arthur had his chin resting on his hand, holding a pencil as he scribbled something away in the journal you had gifted him — and your heart swelled with affection for him, tinged with a little bit of satisfaction by having him actually enjoy something you had given to him. There was half an empty cup of coffee at his table, beside a plate with half of a sandwich and you figured he must’ve arrived not too long ago.

He didn’t seem to have noticed you, too focused on the task at hand to actually pay much mind to whatever was happening around him. The thought had you smiling with fondness, for some reason.

Your hand tightened around the strap of your shoulderbag. You wanted to sit with him, you realized with a shocking realization; maybe have a coffee and chat a little. Arthur was by no means a bad company, he was funny and witty, having an air of caring disposal to his personality that made you enjoy every minute you could get with him.

It was just a chat, a little voice at the back of your mind reasoned. Just a casual conversation. There would be no harm in that. You were simply being amicable, weren’t you? Friendly, just plain and simple. With a steadying breath, you moved towards him, smile automatically broadening as you got closer.

You were in deep shit.

“How are we doing today, Arthur?,” you asked in your therapeutic voice and Arthur perked up immediately.

He turned to you, setting the pencil down as soon as soon as his eyes caught yours and you could tell he was surprised, but wasted no time on getting to his feet. “Hey, doc,” he spoke casually, bending down to press a polite kiss to the side of your face like he’d done a thousand times. You felt your face burn up just a little. “didn’t expect to run into you here.”

You nodded, absolutely not regretting it. “It’s a small place, yes; I confess that’s the main reason why I like coming here. Also, it has a really good cappuccino.”

Arthur chuckled, the sound of it familiar and comforting to you at this point. “Yeah, well, just got here myself. Was workin’ at the journal and I have to admit, you were right ‘bout it. It’s quite calmin’.”

“I’m glad to see you’ve enjoyed it, really,” you offered gently, feeling brave enough to risk a fleeting brush to his shoulder. You marveled at the way he always seemed to feel so warm and solid every time you touched him. “Like I said, it’s a good way to voice your feelings, quite soothing.”

He smiled softly at you. “Yeah, good excuse to practice my watercolor too,” Arthur motioned towards the leather bound journal, obviously at ease, “good pages for it, too. I’m surprised you knew.”

You shrugged lightly, quickly avoiding your gaze before looking at him again. “I just had a hunch, I think.”

Arthur breathed out a laugh, sitting back sideways on the white cushioned chair in order to face you. “Wanna take a look at it?”

You blinked, slightly taken aback by the offer. It was innocent enough, but it still made your heartbeat raise a little, and you hesitated. “Oh, you don’t have to show it to me—“

“Nonsense,” Arthur waved his hand dismissively, motioning for you to sit across from him at the beige colored sofa-booth right beside the window, “wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want ya to take a peek, ‘sides you’re yet to see some art by me, right?” He smiled softly, in an inviting way, “tell me what you think.”

_It’s okay_, you told yourself, _just take a look at it, maybe have a coffee and—_

Who said anything about coffee?!

With a mortified sense of self-awareness, you made your way to the sofa-booth. It was an intimate way to sit with someone, especially with the small table and warmth emanating from everywhere around you. Arthur picked up the menu, passing it to you with a sweet smile.

“Order somethin’ for yourself, doc,” he drawled, in voice that could only be classified as teasing, as if he knew the effect he had on you. “Now yer obligated to spend some time with me.”

Laughing, you took the menu from him and set it down. “I guess you caught me in your trap, Mr. Morgan. How rude of you.”

Arthur hummed, trying to look smug. “I’m smarter than I look like.”

“Quite,” you agreed, smiling at the flustered look that passed through his features for a split second. “Won’t you order me something, since you’re so smart?”

He watched you for a moment, almost surprised, before deciding on it and picking up the discarded menu. “Let’s see,” his gaze lingered on your face, flicking every so often downwards, “you seem like the kind who goes by somethin’ sweet,” he spoke more to himself and you couldn’t help but laugh at it.

“So does you,” you motioned towards the half drained mocha coffee sitting by his hand, “although I’d never have guessed. You seemed like the type to take it straight to me.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shot up, a light chuckle at the back of his throat. “Good to know I can still surprise you somehow, doc.”

Oh, he had no idea.

“What do you have in mind, then?,” you asked, trying to peek at the menu, only to have Arthur pull it more closely to him with an amused laugh.

“I’ll say either Italian cappuccino or mochaccino,” he announced with finality, putting the little booklet aside and moving to his own cup of half finished coffee. “I’ll let you pick which, cuz whatever you’re having, I’ll want one too; if you don’t mind.”

You tried to hide your smile, looking over to one of the waitresses and signaling for her to come over and take the order. Arthur stayed silent, watching you somewhat fondly, until the waitress left, taking the empty cup and the plate in which only a small portion of his sandwich remained after he had said he wouldn’t be finishing it.

“Are you going to show me your journal,” you started casually, pointing to it, “or was it just a way to trick me into having a coffee with you?”

Arthur raised his hands in mock surrender before speaking up. “Maybe a lil’ bit of both, I’ll admit. Just hope you don’t mind much.”

You sighed, cocking your head to the side with a sense of familiarity. A tiny voice whispered at the back of your mind that you were taking things too far; but you preferred to ignore it in order to have Arthur looking at you the way he did now. “Very well then,” you acquiesced gently, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “let’s see what you have.”

“Ain’t much writing,” he explained, picking it up and passing it to you “just drawings n’ such, few watercolors, ‘s all.”

His fingers brushed yours when you touched the leather cover, which made you startle slightly, coughing a bit to diffuse the tension. With a little surprise, you noticed that Arthur had nearly used half of the pages already. “You sure liked the idea, don’t know why you never took to it before.”

Arthur shrugged, watching you open the journal and examine a particularly skillful work of a riverbank forestline, the goldish-orange hue of it making it clear which season it was. “Just needed the right push, s’ppose.”

“That’s…,” you ran your hands over the picture, turning to see a pencil sketch of a bird on the next page, beside what you thought was the perfect representation of a tree leaf on the other side. He was skilled, definitely. “Arthur, that’s so beautiful…”

The man scoffed a little, clearly embarrassed. “Ain’t much, but thank you—“

“No,” you interjected softly, turning to the next page for a particularly good-looking representation of blue flowers, which you recognized to be a clump of forget-me-nots, their name written below in neat calligraphy with Arthur’s signature beside. “I mean it, they’re really beautiful.”

“Ah,” he gasped, standing up and quickly moving to your side and you unthinkingly made room for him to sit beside you. “I forgot to give this one to you,” Arthur pointed to it, “thought you deserved a little thank you for… well, you know, didn’t have to buy the journal, but since you did—“

You turned to look at him, the realization and embarrassment slowly creeping in and covering your cheeks in a pinkish hue. “Oh, please, you don’t have to—“

“Aw, c’mon, doc,” he gently pulled the journal from your hands, steadying the pages to rip off the one with the watercolor meant for you, “it’s the least I could do.”

He passed it you, feigning nonchalance, but you noticed how nervous he was; so you took it in your hands, marveling once more at how beautiful it was. “I don’t know what to say, it really is beautiful, Arthur,” you glanced up at him, smiling, “thank you so much.”

“s nothin’,” he half muttered, with a sheepish little smile, pushing the leather bound book back to you, but he didn’t move to go back to his chair across from you. “Just thought you’d like it, ‘s all.”

Trying to repress your own smile, you averted your gaze and set it aside to keep it from crumpling or staining, turning your attention once more to the journal. This was a red light, a big red light — and you tried to play it off as a gentleness, nothing more than that, just Arthur being kind to you. He was an artist, you reminded yourself, and he painted things all the time. It was okay.

You turned the pages idly, examining animal studies and plants, coupled with a few other watercolors — from childhood memories, a few other landscapes, a perky looking brownish dog which Arthur explained to be the one he owned when younger.

“Hosea and Dutch took me to the shelter, couple weeks after I came ‘round. Love at first sight, I say,” Arthur chuckled, scratching at his chin, “he was one mad pup, always had his snout where it shouldn’t be.”

“You never mentioned you had a dog,” you commented idly, turning to look at him with a pleasant smile, “I didn’t think you were a dog person.”

Arthur snickered, resting his elbow on the table and leaning into it a little. “Never got the opportunity need to mention, ‘s all.”

You watched him for a second, taking in the soft smile on his lips and the warmth of his eyes; so incredibly open you could barely believe how clamped up he had seemed to be when you first met. The coffee had come and was gone now, with how entranced you were by the conversation — and so was Arthur, to your absolute glee —, and you were entertaining the idea of ordering another one just to not have to leave.

Politely skipping Arthur’s writings, you preferred not to pry on his thoughts, instead focusing on his artwork — which were, once more, breathtaking. He paid close attention to details, you noticed. There was a myriad of subjects, but it was clear that Arthur had, indeed, a keen interest in nature. You didn’t know why, but it made you smile. As much as he was willing to share things with you, there was still a lot to discover.

“I wonder where you picked up drawing from,” you whispered outloud, caressing the page of a watercolor of the silhouette of a hare standing out against the sun as it set.

“From Hosea,” Arthur said, leaning closer to the book in order to examine the art himself. Christ, he smelled _perfect_. “He taught me most of it, but I just got better with time, y’know.”

You nodded, smiling. All you wanted was to lean sideways and rest your head on his shoulder, but you held back, instead turning the page.

And at that, you cocked your head to the side.

It wasn’t the recreation of a budding flower or a bird spreading its wings ready to fly, there was no landscape or careful study of animal anatomy; no leaves

Instead, you looked at a picture of yourself.

You were standing, about half of your torso in it, next to the desk you kept at the listening room; a serene, yet focused expression on your face as you read through the stack of papers there, the profile of your face highlighted beautifully in Arthur’s skills. The colors he had picked for you were soft, pastel-like, putting together an overall dreamy picture and you could see everything, you noticed; the tiny strands of hair, the glimmer of your eyes, the gentle way that your shoulders slouched a bit. Your lips were pulled up slightly, in a quirky smile and there was an overall soft pink hue to your cheeks.

It was simply beautiful.

Turning to look at Arthur, you found yourself out of words. You tried to say something — anything! —, but you could simply look at him, either in shock or realization, you couldn’t really tell. His eyes drifted to yours and he smiled sheepishly, looking way softer than he had ever in the whole time you had known him. His presence now was nerve-wracking, every inch of your body responding to him as if to electricity.

Arthur leaned closer to you, his breathing fanning warmly against your face at his proximity and it felt almost surreal as his lips pressed softly to your cheek. His hand touched yours, cradling it in his touch as he took the opportunity to brush his nose gently against the sensitive skin. You unconsciously leaned into it, closing your eyes.

It was sweet, achingly so, the way he touched you; almost as if you were made of spun glass, a precious treasure to keep. His fingers tangled with yours and he sighed, pulling back to look at you with half-lidded eyes. The same smile was still there, only softer this time, more of admiration and tenderness than anything else.

With a pinkish hue creeping to your cheeks, you noticed the way which Arthur’s gaze dipped ever so slightly to your lips, coming back up a couple times. He wanted to kiss you, came the realization. You reached out, touching his warm cheek with the tips of your fingers, running them around to the back of his neck, making Arthur close his eyes.

There was a pause as you took in the softness in his expression, the way which he leaned into your touch like a something he’d craved for a long time; his free hand coming up to wrap on your wrist. With a flutter in you stomach, you finally caved, leaning towards him for a kiss.

The kiss was so gentle, the soft press of his lips to yours smooth and perfect. Arthur sighed into it, squeezing your hand fondly as he coached you to open your mouth and give him entrance; a request you could never deny. He was surrounding you, the warmth of his touch on your hand and the sweetness of the cappuccino on his tongue a constant reminder.

Your fingers tightened on his hand, unwilling to let go.

You were _fucked_, you realized instantly.

* * *

You brushed your hair slowly, pensively at the vanity of your bedroom. The moon was high in the sky as you stared at your own reflection. Had you committed the worst mistake in your profession? Allowed yourself to catch feelings for your patient, as well as captivating them in him? There was no way of knowing for certain.

Nevertheless, the treatment had seemed to be nearing the end. You’d close off Arthur Morgan’s file and hopefully drown your feelings in an unholy amount of ice cream and vodka, like any divorced woman would.

He was handsome, you reasoned with yourself, and so unbelievably sweet. Such a good kisser, too, gentle and loving. Even with his tendency to clamp up, Arthur was willing to let people in if they cared enough to stick around for him. It made you wonder if he really was so bad that his ex-wife had wanted to divorce him, but…

Did you even know Arthur?

Well, you felt like you did. People never lied in therapy and it was easy to follow things through and the diagnosis would come together and you figured out where to work, plus you had the reference contacts. It all matched. Sometimes people just wanted to talk and it was easier without the judgment of someone they knew — hence the reason why there couldn’t be a prior contact between patients and therapists aside from the listening room.

You set the brush down, watching yourself in the mirror. It was obvious that you had made a mistake. You were still recovering from your own failed marriage, your ex-husband having been a poor excuse for a companion for the past 8 years of your life. You were confused, Arthur was caring and you got carried away. That was it.

_If he had been anything like Arthur_, a tiny voice whispered at the back of your mind, _you’d probably still be married. Maybe even with children._

“What the _fuck_,” you whispered at yourself, “what the _actual fuck_—“

You started entertaining the idea of referring him to someone else, a colleague maybe, someone who wouldn’t _catch_ feelings for him but then—

_Arthur has trust issues_, you reminded yourself angrily, _if you refer him to someone else, especially after that long of therapy, he’ll feel dejected. We’re speaking of lives, here. You know the prognosis. You can’t._

_Even if you wanted to._

“Fuck,” you sighed, feeling the start of a migraine building up. You paced in an antsy manner in your bedroom before deciding to storm towards the office. You needed the files.

The room was clear, with hues of soft blues and white furnishing to keep your books and logs into shelves. Tying your hair back into a loose knot, you fished Arthur’s logbook from between a disarray of books that looked the same for anyone else asides from you, flicking the pages quickly until you found his entry. You felt as if you were intruding, checking at his logbook like that, even though you _were _his therapist. You were supposed to accompany his case and make sure he was progressing, not risking your career as a whole because of an infatuation—

You put your reading glasses on with an annoyed sound at the back of your throat.

_-> Patient seems to have become less intolerant towards his emotions, displays more willingness to talk about them occasionally + improved verbalization and recognition;_

_-> Has stopped shying away from family topics; speaks blandly about early childhood;_

_-> Settled divorce has caused relief, patient has started to develop more self-confidence + vocalization of his wants;_

_-> Has shown a willingness for connection with others;_

_-> Patient has shown uneasiness about the ending of treatment; possible codependency?_

_-> Difficulty when it comes to reaching out for things he wants + unbelieving of self-worth on certain situations (needs work); strives for reassurance every now and then._

Frowning you set the logbook down, with a shivering sigh. Just a couple months more, until the end of the six months period and you’d be able to breath properly — maybe even talk to a colleague about your situation. You made a point of actively ignoring the forget-me-not watercolor you had put in a glass frame in front of you.

When it came to Arthur Morgan, all the years of experience dried up as if an empty well.

With a sickening drop of your stomach, you sat down on your office desk, pulling out a clean paper branded with your name and wrote down a patient referral letter alongside a clean copy of Arthur’s logbook. You decided to keep the flirty behavior and professional boundaries crossed aside, not wanting to get in trouble, alleging that you felt like you could no longer help your client. The moonlight filtering through the window seemed to be the only witness of your deeds, silent and judging.

There was no way you could keep seeing Arthur, you told yourself with a painfully tight tinge of pain in your chest, not when he messed with your head like that, the way you had kissed; and with you willing to bend the rules and blur the lines between your relationship just to indulge him, the memory of the kiss still fresh on your mind. You were no rookie, no fresh-out-of-a-classroom therapist, with only theories to guide you.

You were a seasoned therapist. You had experience and an outlined career path, with good mentors, of a decent formation. You’ve always had a good way with people, always been told you were a good listener. _It’s not supposed to happen like this_, you kept telling yourself as the letter came to be. _It simply isn’t._

You signed it off with a flourish, like a death sentence. You’d make sure to find a colleague who’d suit his needs, better than you ever possibly could — and to call his referral contact, Hosea, later tomorrow. _It’s for the best_, you told yourself.

Freud had once said that psychoanalysis is, in its essence, a cure through love. It was healing, pure and nurturing, but the love in which he referred to had nothing to do with developing affairs with your patients. You were supposed to listen to Arthur, help him realize his own inner strength and send him off back on his way; and you had done it a thousand times before, with countless clients.

Your eyes welled up with tears of frustration and you leaned forwards to press your forehead against the sealed off envelope on your desk, as if hoping it’d give you the answers you needed.

* * *

The day dragged slowly, with you delivering the letter to one of your colleagues of a different clinic, who had experience around the same area as you — he was polite enough not to ask about your sudden decision, looking suspicious, but took the document nevertheless. You passed along details regarding referral contacts and little conjectures on diagnosis and approaches for Arthur — how he seemed to be fond of humor when nervous, his eye contact avoidance when uncomfortable and etc.

Your colleague took notes slowly, fixing you with the look of someone who wanted to ask more, but decided against it.

After getting the worst part of it done, you left the clinic, walking out in the brisk autumn air towards your car, sighing loudly once the door was shut. “Fuck,” you muttered in the deafening silence.

Might as well get it done with. You fished out your cellphone, quickly finding Hosea’s number and dialing to explain the situation for him, doing your best to sound calm once he his voice came up from the other side of the line. “Hello?,” there was a clattering of dishes in the background and you supposed he was in the kitchen.

“Hello, Mr. Matthews,” you said softly, trying to avoid a tremor in your voice, “it’s Arthur’s therapist, I was wondering if you had some time to talk?”

“Ah, yes,” he replied promptly and you heard a door being closed and shuffling, someone asking about the call. Maybe he had gone to the garden? “Has something happened? Is Arthur okay?”

“No need to worry,” you bit your lip, closing your eyes, “Arthur is completely fine. I’m just calling to let you know that unfortunately, I won’t be able to stay with him for the remaining sessions of our treatment—“

“He hasn’t offended you, has he?,” the man asked suddenly, sounding worried, “boy has a poor filter, but his heart is right.”

“No, he…,” you gulped, shaking your head as more tears welled up, “he’s a good patient, but I do believe that your son would be in more capable hands with another therapist.” Hosea hummed thoughtfully, considering your words. “I took the liberty of putting together a referral letter, with all his documentation and information and passed it along to a few colleagues and fortunately one of them replied to me,” you pushed your hair back, trying to keep the tremor off of your voice, “I just left his office, actually.”

“I see…” Hosea sounded surprised, even though he agreed, “that’s a bit sudden, though. I thought you were getting along nicely, weren’t you?”

Perhaps too nicely, you wanted to reply.

“We are, I’ve built a strong bond with Arthur, but I feel like his situation is now beyond my capability as a professional, unfortunately.”

The man hummed, considering your words. “Huh,” he sounded wary, as if not entirely pleased, but understanding. “Will you pass me the information on your colleague then?”

“Yes, absolutely,” you sighed out thankfully, tapping your fingers on the steering wheel, “do you have paper?”

* * *

It was wasn’t until a month later that you heard of Arthur, mind constantly wandering off to conjure him in the empty seat of the listening room. The brown throw-pillow of the loveseat seemed far too neat for your liking now, and you picked it up slowly. You missed him, you realized with a sudden wave of emotion. Was it possible to mourn a romance that never came to be? Did he miss you too? You couldn’t possibly know, nor shouldn’t. It was for the best if you severed ties with him.

As if on cue, your phone started ringing, snapping you out of your daydream. Frowning, you recognized the name as the one of your colleague which you had referred Arthur to, and you flopped down on the loveseat with your arms wrapped protectively around the cushion, like Arthur used to do before picking up.

“Hey,” the man greeted you lightly, “do you have some time? I was hoping to ask you a few questions, could be over the phone if you’re in a hurry.”

“Sure thing,” you agreed promptly, “I’m between breaks now, but I can talk. What’s the matter?”

“It’s about the patient you’ve referred me to, some…,” he paused for a moment, as if reading a file, “Arthur Morgan, I believe.”

Your throat tightened and you felt the cold pinpricks of needles at the back of your neck. “Yes, Arthur. What do you need to know, then?”

“I was just wondering if he had the habit of skipping sessions,” your heart dropped at it, “it’s been a month now and he hasn’t showed up for about… six sessions I think, with the reschedules of course.”

“He never skipped with me,” you said in a levelled voice, devoid of any emotion, “maybe he’s having a hard time readjusting with the change?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “I called the referral contact, his father I believe? Hosea Matthews?”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Matthews,” you agreed.

“Well, I called and he said he couldn’t convince Arthur to finish the remaining time in therapy. The patient seems reluctant, apparently, he says that he doesn’t need it anymore and I grew worried because according to the information you passed me along—“

Your mind zoomed out, the words falling on deafened ears. Fuck.

What would be of Arthur now, with an incomplete treatment? What if you had left him scarred for life, breaking his trust like that, without so much as a warning? Your stomach twisted painfully at the memory of the kiss, the growing anxiety creeping around you and seeping into your bones.

All because you were too scared to access your feelings, choosing to play on the safer side and pushing him away. There were ways to make it work, you knew — loopholes and technicalities —, but you clamped up at the prospect of letting him get any closer. You felt your eyes burn with the warmth of unshed tears, reaching for the tissue paper to keep your emotions from ruining the light makeup of the day.

Someone calling your name snapped you out of your haze.

“Are you still there?,” your colleague asked, as if expecting an answer.

“Sorry, I kinda spaced out here,” you said, fighting against the waver in your voice, “I didn’t quite catch it.”

“I asked if you could come in contact with the patient or his referral, just to be sure. I don’t think they trust me enough to handle it.”

“Sure,” you muttered out with a dry mouth, “I’ll try to reach him, do you want me to get back to you—“

“With all due honesty,” your colleague spoke softly, making you want to cry even more. Had he heard the silent despair in your voice? “I do believe that you should figure out what you really want before anything else.

Silence stretched for a few seconds before you recovered. “I don’t know—“

“I won’t tell,” he said gently, “I can vouch for that.”

You closed your eyes, allowing the tears to gather there. It wasn’t unknown to most of your profession colleagues about the nasty breakout with your ex-husband and your self-induced behavior of isolation. You took a deep breath before speaking again. “Thank you.”

* * *

You parked the car in front of an apartment complex, in a nice little residential neighborhood. The building was somewhat stocky, with only eight floors, with white and dark blue tiling. Drumming your fingers on the steering wheel, you started to fidget anxiously.

You had rushed to your desk, fingers running through patient files until you found Arthur’s — complete with contact, address and etc. With a resolute sort of conviction, you set out, asking your front desk attendant to reschedule any appointments you were to have later that day. Tucking the file below your arm, you took the car and set the GPS to the address.

Now, standing at the final destination, according to your cellphone, you looked up at the building. Coming closer to the intercom, you searched for the right name, reading the freshly scribbled “Morgan” in pen and paper, in contrast to the others, which were clean slates.

“Okay,” you pressed the button, listening to the telltale buzz of the call being ensued, “right.”

It rung until it didn’t anymore, your anxiety growing by the minute. With some sense of impatience, you pressed the button again and the faint sound started once more. You pressed your hands together, shivering at the cool wind blowing through the street. The afternoon was clear, but you had forgotten to grab your coat on your way out of the clinic and the autumn chill was exerting its power.

“Who’s it?,” came Arthur’s annoyed voice from the intercom, sounding annoyed. “Ain’t got no time—“

“Arthur,” you said his name gently and he quieted down. It was uncomfortable, you had to admit. “Arthur, I need to—“

“What do you want?,” he muttered out, sounding defensive.

“Can you buzz me in, please?,” you asked with a tight knot in your throat, “I need to see you.”

You heard him huff from the other side of the line, unbelieving. “Do ya, now?”

“I know,” you acquiesced, feeling your desperation growing by the minute, “I know, but we need to talk, please?”

He stayed quiet for a while, your heart pounding in your chest at his silence. “I’m not… sure if I want to see you, doc.”

“Arthur,” you pleaded, “I’m not here as your therapist, that’s not who I am,” your voice wavered as you pressed your hand to your lips to keep check of your own emotions. You had missed his voice so much. “I’m here as your friend, please.”

Arthur sighed and you could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. He seemed unwilling to say anything else.

“I just need to see you,” you whispered to the intercom, voice cracking at the emotion of everything, “I just— please, Arthur,” you breathed out shakily, “please.“ The gate buzzed and you startled, before pushing it open hesitantly. Your hands felt clammy despite the cold.

Gathering the little courage you had left, you walked into the building with a growing sense of dread, your heart fluttering in your chest like a caged bird. Did he really want to see you now? Arthur wouldn’t have let you in, if he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t. You felt as if your legs might give out.

There were some people walking about the hall, some chatting casually at the common area, but no one paid much mind to your presence. Fidgeting with the sleeve of your blouse as you walked towards the elevator, you turned your gaze down to your phone where the number to Arthur’s apartment appeared in the notepad — 302. Swallowing down your anxiety, you pressed the number three and watched as the doors closed.

You weren’t sure what to say to Arthur. Should you confess? Was that too cliché? You _should_ tell him the truth, though. That’s what he deserved, after wall, the reason why you had come all this way. The elevator was taking a long way up, thankfully, and you were left to your own thoughts.

No way in hell you were ready for what was to come. There was nothing about it in the books back when you studied — and even if there were, you’d have brushed it off as some hypothetical situation that could never happen to you because you were too disciplined. A pretty little tale spun for those who were romantic at heart, but not you. You knew how to behave, or at least thought you did.

It hurt your head to think.

The elevator came to a stuttering halt, the doors hissing as it opened and you stepped out into the equally well-lit hall.

“Three o’ two…,” you muttered, rubbing your hands together as your head turned from one side to another, squinting slightly and moving towards it once you located the door.

You stood there, for maybe a few seconds, before knocking gently at the door; once, twice. There was silence from the inside, but soon enough you heard it unlock and Arthur appeared in front of you, worse than you had ever seen him. There were dark bags under his eyes, a day or two beard sprouting on his face with a greasy mess of curls on top of that. He looked tired, in a simple grey tee and some sweatpants in the middle of the summer. Far too tired. Had he just woken up?

With a tight press of your lips, you felt your eyes watering. Had you done this to him? “Arthur,” you choked out his name, raising both your hands to the lower half of your face, “I’m so sorry…”

He didn’t say anything, but you could sense the surprise in his demeanor before sighing tiredly and averting his gaze to the floor. “You never told me anythin’…”

“I know,” you cut in with a teary voice, wiping away the stubborn tears that insisted on streaking down your cheeks, “I just didn’t know what do when you— when we… I got scared that you—“

The man reached out, one calloused hand curling around your forearm in a gentle motion as you allowed yourself to be drawn in by his presence, warm and solid. Arthur made a noise at the back of his throat, something choked with emotion, when you threw yourself into his embrace, clutching to his tee with all the might you could muster up. “I was so scared, I thought it was my fault—“

Arthur shook his head slightly, staggering out a shaky breath himself. “’s okay, doc…”

“Please,” you hugged him tighter and you still could smell the sandalwood cologne on his skin, subtle but definitely there, “I never meant to…,” you trailed off, shaking your head, “I like you, Arthur. More than I probably should, but…”

“I want you to stay,” Arthur whispered suddenly and you were highly aware of your own lack of words after it. He circled your waist, fingers digging gently into your back as he took a steadying breath. “I need to know, I need to know if I can love you, so please— I don’t wanna do this if you’re not… I gotta know if you’ll stay with me. I need to.”

You pulled back from him, eyes watering and searching into his teal colored ones and this time you allowed yourself to take in just how handsome Arthur really was, as your hands cupped the sculpted marble of his face. He shuddered at it, closing his eyes and leaning forwards to press his forehead to yours with a quiet sigh of someone who’d been denied for far too long.

“Let me kiss you again,” Arthur pleaded in a whisper, calmly and too benevolent for you not make a sweet sound at the back of your throat, “please.”

You closed your eyes, taking a steadying hold of his neck. “Next time,” you whispered back, thumb caressing the sensitive skin under his eye, gently wiping away the dampness that had gathered there, “you don’t have to ask.”

He took a gentle hold of your hand, pressing his chapped lips to your palm like a caress, his demeanor sweet and reverent; and with a twinge, you realized that Arthur was far too good for his _own_ good. “I want you to stay,” he said again, moving on to your forehead and pressing another kiss there. You shivered, tilting your face to allow him better access. “Wanna be with you,” a press of lips to the space between your eyes, “make yer happy.”

At this, you hummed lightly, breathing out shakily. Arthur cupped your face, bringing you closer to him, if that was even possible. His lips caressed your cheek and the subtle curve of your jawline before finally pressing to your own. When it came, the kiss was sweet, so frail and light you could almost believe it wasn’t happening, even if the pressure of Arthur’s hand on the base of your neck was enough proof to you. He muttered your name, trying to pull you more closely against his body, and you gave in with a sigh.

There was a shy prod of tongue against your lips and you complied promptly because oh, it just felt so right — the moment, with him, right then and there. The voice at the back of your mind quieted down immediately, its last murmurs of protests dying out in face of Arthur sweet humming. He pulled you backwards with him, into his apartment, and you pushed the door closed before he could press your back to it with a desperate little gasp.

“Stay with me,” Arthur whispered and God, consequences be damned, you wanted to. His nose brushed against yours, so intimately you could swear you were dreaming, “don’t go.”

You answered by pushing back the soft tresses of his hair, pulling away and making Arthur close his eyes with a soft complaint at the back of his throat. “I’m not going anywhere.” His breathing quickened as he pressed his head to the crook of your neck and you were somewhat amused, fond of the sweetness of the act. “I’ll stay here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading!!! Please, if you appreciated the fic, make sure to leave a comment! They always mean the world to me!


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